


Interlude VII

by AnnetheCatDetective



Series: Interludes [7]
Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Again, Feeding Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23594872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: Another evening in from Jack's POV, some dialogue from AIOS
Relationships: Jack Walker/Llewellyn Watts
Series: Interludes [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679167
Comments: 26
Kudos: 39





	Interlude VII

All Jack can really do is hold onto Llewellyn’s hand, until it stops trembling, offer careful kisses… all he can really do is wait. He feels absolutely wretched, for having ruined a relaxing evening. He hadn’t thought… well, he hadn’t thought. 

He wants to do more, and he’s not sure how much is welcome. It was one thing when Llewellyn came to him upset, needing him-- it’s different, being the one who hurt him. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so low, he just wants to fix it. He just wants… 

He wants Llewellyn to know he’s loved, to know he’s valued, to know he’s seen. To know he isn’t too much, and he certainly doesn’t ask too much.

He just wants to take care of him. He’s not sure what the right move is, but he aches just to hold his lamb in his arms and soothe him, make up for the upset… stroke his hair, and-- selfishly-- soak in the nearness of him, feel him solid and present. When Llewellyn does speak, words he doesn’t simply parrot after Jack, his voice is strained, there’s effort behind each word, and Jack just wants to pull him _close_. 

“ _I’m like this_. I’m always like this, under… The real me is _this_.” He practically _sobs_ , and it wrenches at Jack’s heart. “I’m sorry.”

_Sorry_ , for being the best thing to ever happen to him… Sorry, for having been taken by surprise when he was already under enough stress, for being upset _by_ him. Sorry… who ever made him think he had to be sorry just to _be_? Who ever made him think he had to be sorry to take up space in the world, to have troubles of his own, to not be constantly in service to someone else? And how often has he robbed himself of necessary comforts, pushed himself beyond all reasonable measure, just because someone made him think he was only as good as what he could provide to others? Who ever made him think he had to apologize for existing?

“Please don’t apologize to me for being the man that I love. And please do not tell me that the real you isn’t worth loving.” Jack just holds onto Llewellyn’s hand, and does his best to keep his tone even. The anger he feels at anyone who might have created this desperate apology… He’d like to find that person, those persons, and give them a piece of his mind for ever making him feel broken, unlovable, but the last thing he wants is for any anger to seep into his tone, to be misinterpreted. “Was the man who brought me flowers an artifice? Was the man I made love to in that bed Thursday night? How about the man who walks at my side in the evening like he could single-handedly keep the world from touching me? Is he not real? Did you invent him? Did you invent the man who impressed my friends by reading from Plato in Greek? Was the man who comforted me in my hour of need imaginary? Was the man who risked his career because I asked for an hour alone any less a part of who you are than this? Because that man is real to me, and if this is a part of him, then this is also the man I love. I will not hear a word against him.”

The hand in his flutters, gives a weak squeeze back despite the earlier trembling. 

“You’re not too much. I’m just… _trying_.” Llewellyn promises, though he doesn’t say what it is he’s trying. Trying in general, Jack supposes-- trying to keep up with the world the way he thinks he must, trying to be the man he thinks others want him to be, trying to allow Jack to care for him when he can’t be that man. No one could be that man… not all the time, not the way Llewellyn is trying to be.

“I’ve always been.” He shakes his head. The bad point he perhaps should have warned him about, beyond all others… Jack _is_ too much. He trusts Llewellyn can handle him, on the whole-- Llewellyn isn’t like other men, himself-- but he could have prepared him for it. “Other men, who’ve… Other men who have liked me well enough… never liked me well enough to choose me. If I asked for caution, if I asked for exclusivity… if I leveled an ultimatum, I always lost. If I asked to be important, I wound up alone. That’s not… that’s not someone else’s fault, for not wanting what I wanted. I knew I didn’t really fit in with that circle, with the casual sharing of love, but… I didn’t know anyone else who wanted what I did. Except for old men who’d already found it. I didn’t know… And I always did spoil things. Too many domesticities, too many invitations.”

It’s a hard confession to make, not because he thinks Llewellyn won’t understand… he thinks he’ll have his sympathy-- and it will be sympathy, not pity. He thinks he has Llewellyn’s full feeling, and he thinks perhaps he has had it for a long time… the depth of all the emotion he keeps close to the vest, but… but it’s there, if you care to look, Jack doesn’t imagine he could miss it now that he’s seen it. It’s a hard confession to make just because Jack knows he hasn’t always been… wise, with love. He hasn’t always chosen well. He hasn’t always respected himself very much-- and he hasn’t always been seen as… well, whatever it is he wants Llewellyn to keep seeing in him, other men haven’t always found. He’s had to be the expert on love, between them, but too much of what he’s learned, he’s only learned since finding Llewellyn-- he’s only learned now that he has something like this, to compare to past mistakes. Well-- he thinks it’s unfair to call every failed romance a mistake, exactly, or to put them all on the same level. He’s been mistreated, but he’s also just been a poor match.

“I love that about you. You haven’t… given up on me. You keep opening your home, until I can accept it. I’m grateful.” Llewellyn’s head lists towards him slightly, his hand squeezes just briefly and gently.

“It’s never been beaten out of me.” He says, wraps both hands around Llewellyn’s. He has to keep his focus there, to get through what he wants to say, what he needs to say. For all his disappointments, and for all that the world has certainly tried-- for all the beatings he has taken-- there’s something in him that couldn’t be killed, and that something’s been waiting for a man like Llewellyn. “To want what other people get. They barely have to ask for it and it finds them. And they don’t _appreciate_ it. They don’t know what they have and they don’t appreciate it. If I could be-- with you, the way other people… I would never let a day go by without showing you how much you are to me. I would never let a day go by that I didn’t take care of you. If I could keep you every night and wake to you every morning I would never grow so used to you that I would not be grateful for you.”

“Jack…” He can feel the movement, of Llewellyn turning towards him, and he turns in to meet him. To finally be able to rest their heads together, to share more of the comfort he craves, the getting and the giving.

“Do I want too much?” He whispers into the space between them. “I’m sorry if I do. Maybe I should have warned you from the start.”

“No. No, you’re not too much. I just… I can’t change that I’m like this. I can’t control it all of the time. I could be just fine and then… then it’s all too much, to exist in the world, and I don’t know… I don’t know anyone else who’s _like_ this. When I can control it, then… I could call it the price of brilliance, if I was particularly disinclined to be humble. When I can’t, then I feel like I have more in common with a mental patient than anything else. I’m _sane_ , but it doesn’t feel it, when no one else is experiencing the world the way I experience it. When people look at me as if I’m _not_ , and there’s no explaining… Things are either too much or not enough, but it’s not _predictable_.”

The sympathetic ache in his chest is stronger than ever. His poor lamb, to struggle day in and day out with that kind of feeling… the self-doubt and the anguish, and never being able to find someone to share such an integral part of his life with-- he can’t imagine what his life would be like, without the people he is able to share with, the one stark difference he feels between himself and society at large. Llewellyn had gone his whole life without community, feeling even more keen differences than that. He’s not sure how much he can or should pull him in… if he perhaps needs some breathing room, with how rattled he’d been. But perhaps, after a little time to breathe, he can offer his arms, offer Llewellyn a safe place within them. He’s only sorry he can’t commiserate with him on more… but he can offer him his love. 

“We’re a pair, then. I don’t think either of us has ever had the love we’ve needed, before. I’ve always asked for too much, I don’t think you’ve ever asked for enough. Maybe it was a stroke of luck you found me. Maybe we… just figure out how to come out even. Could you eat a little more, or should I put this up for breakfast? I can turn what we’ve got left over into a hash.”

“Breakfast sounds… good.” Llewellyn nods. 

It does feel wrong, to see him so robbed of his appetite-- it isn’t the first time, but that doesn’t make it easier, it only means Jack knows he loses his appetite when he’s especially distressed, so much so that he can’t eat for comfort. But perhaps if he puts their leftovers up now in anticipation of a good breakfast in the morning, they might later have a cup of tea and something to eat. Or the dessert he’d bought… he was planning a very different night, with that.

“Come sit by the fire with me, then?” Jack offers, giving Llewellyn’s hand a squeeze before letting go. “Once I have everything put up.”

He gets a nod, and so he gets through putting the food up as quickly as he can. He pours the remainder of his own wine into Llewellyn’s glass, and takes both Llewellyn and the wine into the sitting area. 

“Come here…” He sets the glass down on his side table, dropping into the good chair and tugging Llewellyn down into his lap. “Come here, I’ve got you.”

“I’m-- I can’t.” Llewellyn laughs nervously. 

“Of course you can. You’re not too heavy.”

“My legs are too long.”

“Your legs are perfect.” Jack insists, guiding him-- that gets a less nervous laugh, which gets Jack grinning. “Please? I’d love to be able to hold you.”

Llewellyn nods, allowing Jack to arrange his limbs, to shift him just so until they’re cozy. He leans right into Jack’s chest, nuzzles at his temple just once with a sigh, and it’s… _good_. Holding him feels right, having his arms full with him and feeling the tension begin to drain away.

“Better?” He asks.

“Better. Maybe. I feel ridiculous.” Llewellyn admits, drawing back just enough to nod towards the length of his legs, angled to hang off of Jack’s lap despite the potential impediment that is the arm of the chair..

“You feel good to me.” He teases, one hand wandering-- though he’s quick to settle back into something free from pressure or expectation. “Thank you. For… letting me take care of you. It means a lot to me. I don’t… I don’t know if I can explain it.”

“Have other men… not let you?” Llewellyn’s hand smooths over the front of his shirt, he shifts closer again.

“Some don’t.” He admits, and once again, it’s that gift Llewellyn seems to have for breaking past the walls he’s long had around him, and he feels as though he could-- should-- admit to the rest, admit that he has been unwise in love time and again. But with that, be free to say that he has never been loved this well. If he can get through the worst parts of his romantic past, then… then he’ll be free, and he can make Llewellyn understand how much he values him, for not being like any of the men he’s known before. “Some… sometimes a man lets you come to his house and cook his dinners and fuss over him, and you know that if you go to a party together you’ll find him down someone else’s throat. But you let it go because he still lets you feel useful, for a while.”

“If I ever meet the man--”

“You won’t.” He’s quick to say, quick to hold Llewellyn closer, to soothe-- and he hopes in some wordless way, to express his gratitude, that Llewellyn’s first thought should be him, now. “You will not be meeting _any_ of the men who have ever treated me badly. I don’t… associate with any of them anymore, and if I did, I wouldn’t let them at you. There are good people in those circles, but… it’s difficult. Or it was for me.”

It was after Owen-- after the first time, with Owen, when they were boys and not ready for much. His first ‘real’ lover had been self-centered, uncaring, but he’d introduced him to others. On the one hand, others like him, others who understood all those things he could never speak of. But… others who weren’t looking for permanent, weren’t looking for monogamous, and credit where credit is due, Owen hadn’t been looking for either of those things but he’d done his best to give them a sort of a try, when Jack fell back into his life. He’d changed more than Jack had, in the time since they’d first known each other, he’d become… he’d become all artifice, in a way Jack hadn’t known how to navigate. He’d had so many affectations, he was barely recognizable as the childhood sweetheart of his memory. But there was more real to him than to some, and as much as he liked to ask for trouble, there was more kindness in him, too. The other boys Jack had tried to love… they never had much warmth, and they never had much patience, for the kind of love he’d had to give. He hadn’t had the perspective then to ask for more. Owen had been a step in the right direction, they’d cared about each other’s feelings, they’d respected each other, they’d both tried to understand the other’s needs. He’d been a different kind of mistake, perhaps… or letting it go so long had been, but the beginning had been necessary. 

“If taking care of me is what makes you happy, now that you’ve seen the worst of it, then you’re welcome to me, Jack.” Llewellyn leans their heads together once more, for only a moment. “It’s… not normally like that. But it does happen. That you haven’t run from me yet...”

“Taking care of you makes me happy. Cooking your meals makes me happy. Offering you a place in my home makes me happy. Hanging up your coat next to mine, and cleaning you up after we’ve made love, and working the knots out of your back, these things all make me very happy.”

He draws Llewellyn closer still, and breathes in the scent of him, finding comfort in it. The way his skin warms his cologne, the scent lingering on even so late in the day-- He likes things that smell nice, he doesn’t pretend he knows what goes into making them do, he hasn’t Llewellyn’s ability to analyze an aroma bit by bit. Musk, though, that lingers, melds with his own. Something spicy, something woodsy. None of the bright note which he’s smelled on his newly-returned scarf before, and the lavender is a bare whisp, the memory of it entwined around the spicy, woodsy notes. Still, it’s familiar, the scent of Llewellyn at the end of a day, when he comes to him… all faded cologne, and skin musk. And, Jack thinks, even without a nose trained to pick out notes, he can still categorize, can still form his opinion and associations. Llewellyn smells warm, to him, and wild.

Well… with aroma and analyzation on the mind, he pulls back from the crook of Llewellyn’s neck and reaches for the wine, brings it up to Llewellyn’s lips. 

“Tell me about this one?” He smiles, doesn’t release the glass entirely even as Llewellyn’s hand comes up to join his, to control the angle at which it tilts. He watches, from this delightful vantage point, as Llewellyn breathes it in and takes a sip. 

“Mm-- mm… plum. Plum and red currant.” He thinks a moment, takes another little sip. “There’s something floral-- not violet… not rose… not sure.”

“Well, let me see if I can make out the plum.” Jack says, and they each keep a hand on the glass as he takes another sip, as he brings it back to Llewellyn’s lips once more. Wine, at least, seems to retain the power to coax him into a happier mood, where even food had failed. But then, it isn’t only the alcohol, and it isn’t only the taste, it’s the _way_ that Llewellyn cares about wine, it’s his interest in knowing every part of it. The history of the bottle, the place the grapes were grown, the act of detecting the fine details and the knowledge to understand how so many things affect the end product.

It’s different and not-different, from Owen’s stamp collection, he supposes. He hadn’t known any more about stamps than he does about wine, if anything he’d known less, but he could be interested because it was important to someone he’d cared for, and moreover… moreover he’d known that he could ask a question about that hobby if he wanted to help distract from a poor mood. For that matter, he could do the same thing with Aldous, as a friend. Yet he doesn’t think either man is very like Llewellyn, somehow, in the _way_ that he engages. Perhaps Aldous is closer, somehow. Or… Abram is very similar, in the way that he is about his own collections. How personally he takes the history of each item. For that matter, Jack can remember listening to his father’s animated lectures about the theatre, literature, philosophy-- he’d managed to pass on a love of literature, at least.

Jack can’t help but wonder what he would think of Llewellyn-- he can never know what he’d think of the fact that Jack loves him, but… he thinks he’d have approved of him as a person, on his own merits. He thinks his mother would like him very much, if he could introduce him as a friend, if she didn’t have to know the rest. She’d love him. Perhaps in time, it’s a question he can raise again.

For now, there’s this. Sharing the rest of the wine, doing his best at learning to pick out the notes Llewellyn can tell him are lurking there, encouraging Llewellyn to tell him about the vintage and variety. 

“How do you feel about ice cream?” Jack asks, when Llewellyn’s mood seems to be restored.

“I’m in favor, generally speaking. Why?”

“Because if you don’t feel up to eating ice cream very soon, then it’s just going to be cream.” 

“... What?” Llewellyn blinks down at hm, smile spreading warm and slow over his face. The delight, the wonder.

“Although I’m sure there’s still something we could do with a bowl full of cold, sweet cream. I do think it will be more enjoyable while it’s a little bit solid.” He teases. Though it’s really just a creme anglaise, unfrozen. He could warm it up a bit and serve it over fruit, or something… it wouldn’t be quite as special.

“Yes, all right. You bought ice cream?” The wonder hasn’t quite faded, at the thought.

“I thought it would be nice.” He hesitates a moment, before he dares breach the hopes he’d had when he’d bought it-- something he’d still like, if it’s all right with Llewellyn, something that might bring him some necessary comfort, the feeling of being better able to care for him than he’d shown himself to be earlier in the evening. And… well, and he _wants_ , still. With Llewellyn in his lap, in better spirits, he _wants_. Wants to spoon something sweet and creamy into his mouth and watch him _enjoy_ , hear his sounds of pleasure. “I thought… I might-- feed it to you?”

“Oh.”

“We don’t have--” He starts, quick to reassure, before Llewellyn cuts him off.

“ _Yes_.”

He had not expected any agreement to be so emphatic. But he can see it in Llewellyn’s eyes, an answering heat. Something passes between them, and then they’re both on their feet. 

“I’ll just get--” Jack starts, hands on Llewellyn’s arms, torn between following through on the promise to go and fetch the ice cream, and hauling him in right away.

“Yes.” He nods, breathless, gaze drifting down to Jack’s mouth, which is all the encouragement Jack needs to take a kiss before leaving him-- not that he needs to leave him long to get the ice cream.

“Right here, sit.” He indicates the rug, there before the fire. “It’ll be cozier-- won’t it?”

“Cozy, yes…” Llewellyn sighs, folds himself to sit. Looks up expectantly through his lashes, which is a sight Jack thinks he could power several dreams on, even before the slow lick of the lips. “Do you have something for me?”

_Oh_.

“That I do.” He nods, kneels. Finds his breath stolen looking into Llewellyn’s eyes now, facing each other, lit by the fire’s glow and suspended in the moment of anticipation as Llewellyn’s mouth falls open. He’ll definitely be recalling that moment later, when he needs the inspiration. 

He leans in just a little, watches Llewellyn’s lips close around the spoon, watches the flutter of his lashes, drinks in the soft hum, the barest smile that comes over him after the spoon slides free again. Jack sets the bowl aside, reaching forward, needing more-- to be able to watch him swallow. He hadn’t done, the last time… he’d thought about it, the thought has consumed him before, but he’s never acted upon it. Not until this moment, when he slowly tugs his tie loose, unfastens his collar with a slightly shaky hand. 

He offers him a second bite then, watches the bob of his throat as he swallows, as transfixed as he’s ever been in his imagination.

“Have you done this before?” Llewellyn’s voice is soft, and so is the touch of his hand, resting gentle but heavy on Jack’s knee, the half moon arc his thumb sweeps at the inner side.

“With someone else? I could never bring myself to ask. But… no one else has… no one else _enjoys_ food, the way you do. You let yourself be… fully absorbed in your enjoyment of it. I have enjoyed feeding people-- I mean, not by hand, just-- providing food, making food, without feeling anything like this, more often than I’ve felt… _this_ , precisely. I enjoy seeing people enjoy food and it’s not like this. I couldn’t not ask, if there was any chance you wouldn’t turn and run.” He admits, readying and offering another bite, feeling the slow unspooling of something inside of him. Any other tensions drain away, replaced by a new and far more pleasant variety. 

He could lose himself in this, and it’s a surprise and a comfort to realize that Llewellyn could as well, that he’s as dizzy on it, that when he leans in to offer him another bite, Llewellyn is moaning practically before the ice cream hits his tongue, that his gaze goes warm and hazy when he leans in to meet Jack.

They miss each other just slightly on a too-large bite, Jack leaves a little there on his upper lip, and the sight of it… perhaps if he was to pick a single image from the night to recall on long and lonely evenings apart, it would be this one. Llewellyn looks just pleasure-dazed enough, adoration shining in his eyes, and that clinging, melting white, against the enticing pink of his parted lips. Has he ever been so irresistible as in this moment?

Jack surges forward to kiss him, to taste just the barest hint of the ice cream on his lip, to dive into him. Llewellyn’s tongue is cold, which is odd to say the least, but it doesn’t change how much Jack is enjoying kissing him. Even before he breaks away, he’s digging into the ice cream again to ready another bite. When he does pull back, he keeps one hand wrapped around the back of Llewellyn’s head. Holds him in place as he feeds him another bite. Shifts his hold for the next only so that he can attach himself to Llewellyn’s throat, so that he can feel the way he swallows beneath his own lips, his tongue. 

He feels a flush rise to his cheeks hearing his own moan, but Llewellyn just leans his head back when he does, allowing him freer access to nibble, to suck a little mark down where it won’t be seen, to claim this throat as his own. He abandons the spoon just long enough to work shirt buttons open, though Llewellyn’s undershirt prevents him getting at much skin just yet.

“Are you going to have any?” Llewellyn asks, breathy. He _shivers_ , when Jack uses his teeth, even gently as he does.

“Maybe… but I’d rather you.” He gets Llewellyn’s shirt out of the way. His undershirt leaves his shoulders bare, and just enough of a glimpse of collarbone-- enough of him to lavish kisses upon, though he hurries to get him out of his undershirt as well. 

He feeds Llewellyn his next bite as he kisses his way back across, some melting off the spoon and hitting his chest, just below his collarbone. He watches the quick rise of his chest as he gasps at the cold, and he slides the spoon past his lips, bends his head to lick him clean.

This time, there’s a certain desperate something to the moan, a higher pitch, a need… He pulls back, finding Llewellyn’s eyes, darker and warmer than ever. 

“Are you sure… you won’t have more?” Llewellyn asks, lashes fluttering, gaze darting to the ice cream dish and then back to hold Jack’s gaze. _Wanting_ this… and how could Jack refuse him?

He feeds Llewellyn the last somewhat solid bite, watching avidly as he moves it around his mouth on his tongue, as he focuses on the flavor, on letting it melt-- and then, on the bob of his throat as he swallows, as Jack imagines he could track the progress of that swallow all the way down, despite the lack of any further visual indicators. He sets the dish down on the hearth, spreads a hand across Llewellyn’s chest to guide him down onto his back-- and he moves with him so readily, not a flicker of doubt in his eyes, not a moment’s hesitation. 

He does not imagine that Llewellyn is a weak-willed man. If anything, he thinks in his day to day life he must be quite the opposite-- to have gotten where he is, to have done what he’s done, and with his admitted lack of any very politic quality, he imagines the world at large sees a man who is confident, willful, self-assured in many things. He thinks… he thinks perhaps at first, he was shown this side of him simply because Jack had experience where love was concerned and Llewellyn had not, but this is something else. This is… this is a gift. His full trust, his willingness, his… he doesn’t know what else to call it, the word he wants won’t come, but it’s so much more than only willingness. And it’s everything.

With Llewellyn spread out before him on the rug, gold in the firelight, Jack takes the dish up again, the little bit of melted ice cream.

“All right?” He checks in, has to be sure.

“All right.” Llewellyn smiles up at him, warm and certain, gives him a little nod and stretches his arms out over his head, arches his back a moment. Utterly beautiful, utterly captivating, and even moreso when Jack pours a little melted ice cream out over the flat of his belly and sees the muscles _jerk_ in response to the cold.

He licks it up quickly, and continues licking until Llewellyn goes from squirming at the cold to squirming at the relentless tonguing to sensitive places, drips a trail of melted ice cream up his torso to his chest and keeps on following it, his tongue cleaning up after a series of sticky kisses. He does not consider the complication of chest hair, in his drizzling, but once he’s there he doesn’t find he minds it. Likes it, a little bit-- or at least, he likes that Llewellyn is graced with just the right amount of hair, even if he’s never thought about dragging his tongue through it. 

It’s… it’s not quite the same as indulging in feeding Llewellyn, and the pleasure he derives from that, but he’s already in such a state that he thinks he would enjoy anything Llewellyn asked or offered, and he can’t complain about getting to put his mouth anywhere on Llewellyn’s body-- or about making him squirm, about getting these noises out of him. Any louder and he might have to muffle him, which would be a shame, but… well. His walls aren’t the thinnest, but they’re not thick, either. There’s only so much unrestrained Llewellyn Watts they can take. But… on this side of the room, he hasn’t got an adjoining neighbor. They’re free to make a little noise. 

He does love the noises, the gasps and grunts, the low groans and breathy moans, the little whine when something verges on too much… there’s such variety in him. And he’s so _sensitive_ . Among the men Jack has known intimately-- or at least well enough to be party to discussions about certain preferences-- he doesn’t think there’s anyone quite so sensitive. He _yelps_ , at the first gentle application of teeth to nipple. Jack doesn’t think he’s ever made a man _yelp_ before. 

He would very much like to hear it again, but he eases up a little instead. A very little, perhaps-- it takes time, for him to be able to pull himself away, his mouth busy at Llewellyn’s chest, his hands framing Llewellyn’s ribcage. He has fed him and he will do again, but for now it is his turn to devour him… the thing Llewellyn had been so desirous of, which holds its own undeniable pleasures. He won’t be done with that until he has brought him to completion. Now there’s a delicious thought… to bring him there, to enjoy his pleasure, to watch him come down from the apex of it… to help him lose himself, and shake off the last bitter thoughts of the evening, to ease into a soft and pleasant night.

He sits up over him, nearly as flushed and panting as Llewellyn himself, and his hand slips down to rest low over his belly. That, too, important. Only so much of his desire to see him sated is to do with sex. Could he ask for this next time, as well? Ask to focus on all of him, ask to sate him completely, ask to massage him after? He’s not sure how much he might dare ask for, but he knows at least now, Llewellyn seems pleased enough with his touch.

“I want you to know… I want you to know you’re incredible. And I appreciate this, so much.” He says, and it tastes as heavy as a promise. And Llewellyn’s eyes are dark and heavy-lidded with desire, his lips parted, the flush spread down his throat.... The slight twitch and twist of his hips, anticipatory…

And how could Jack refuse him anything?

He gets his trousers out of the way, admires the way his cock strains at his shorts just a moment before ridding him of those as well, and then he settles himself right down between Llewellyn’s perfect thighs, shifts them to rest over his shoulders as he sets to pleasing him, to taking his cock in deep, tongue playing along the underside as best he’s able. He pulls back to focus his attentions on the head and then swallows him down again, moans around him. 

He could do this all night, he thinks, or he could do it every night of his life, he could do this so much more often than he gets the chance. He never has adequate time to make love to Llewellyn the way he deserves, the way they both do. He thrills to it, each little grunt and gasp and groan, the way Llewellyn writhes beneath him… how beautiful he is, every time Jack looks at him. How sweet. He offers caresses, to ribcage, to thigh, and he sucks hard until Llewellyn’s release floods his mouth-- sucks more gently even after, to make sure he’s not leaving a mess.

“Please…” Llewellyn whines, his thighs falling open wide to allow Jack to get out from under his legs. “Jack, _please_ …”

“Please what, beloved?” He chuckles, moving to kneel-- and moving to do anything provides him a sharp reminder of his own need. “Haven’t I already given it to you?”

Llewellyn shakes his head, reaches out a hand, clumsy and wrung out. “For you, though. For you.”

“Oh-- You don’t need--”

“I do, I _need_.” The hand that reaches for him is insistent, wraps around his wrist. Llewellyn’s eyes are still slightly fogged over with love, but the desire to please him in return is serious. “Jack… will you-- give it to me? Will you--?”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, only looks up at him, only licks his lips slow and leaves them parted. Leaves Jack with enough idea.

He sheds his own clothing at hitherto unattained speed, urges Llewellyn to roll onto his side before arranging himself, flipped around the other way. Rests his brow against Llewellyn’s belly as he guides him through the act, finds him eager and accommodating if not possessed of the most self-control. Llewellyn is…

He’s drunk on it all, of course, they’ve both been, but this is different somehow. As if something goes out of him the moment he’s fulfilled the desire to bring Jack pleasure in return, something that leaves him shivery and boneless, half out of it. Jack practically carries him to bed, where he tucks the covers around them both and wraps himself around Llewellyn to warm him back up. They’ll rearrange themselves throughout the night, in and out of each other’s personal space, but this is a nice start...


End file.
